


The Gorbeau Affair

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: Noir Javert [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Noir, Gen, Noir Javert, because NOIR.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 08:52:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: The (mis)adventures of Inspector Javert, detective and law enforcement officer extraordinaire.(Or: a completely cracky parody of both Javert and the noir genre. Originally postedherein various parts.)





	The Gorbeau Affair

**Author's Note:**

> It started when Andrew Davies called the story of Javert ['classic film noir'](http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/tv/news/bbcs-les-miserables-to-ditch-the-appalling-singing-of-the-film-a6862876.html) (what?? Javert is kind of the opposite of the libertine-esque, grey-moraled, loose-talking stereotypical noir detective archetype).
> 
> (There really isn't a coherent plot; I just wanted to backup everything here.)

**Number 14, Rue de Pontoise, Paris.**

 

The commissary had a day off when it happened. I was in the office, reading over old papers. It was almost dark out, but I was still working. The job was the most important thing. I had no time for wine or women. The law was my only mistress.

“There’s someone to speak to you,” said the clerk, leaning against the door.

“Well, send him in,” said I.

The boy who entered was tall and skinny and the type that spent hours poring over books. He might have been sickly as a child. He had a mess of unruly black curls and a strong nose. His jacket was old, but neat.

I leaned back in my chair. It helped to have an air of comfort with young boys like this one. “What it is, then?”

He stammered slightly and adjusted his hat. It was a fine hat. “The – the commissary of police?”

“He’s absent,” I said. He was often absent. “I’ll speak for him.”

“It’s – a very secret affair,” said the boy nervously.

I sat up straight. “Well, why didn’t you say so! Kid, I can handle it. Tell me.”

“And it’s very urgent.”

“Tell me quickly, then.”

It was probably some petty crime, I thought. Maybe the boy’s mistress had stolen a five-franc piece. Maybe his older brother had swindled a waistcoat. It was never anything serious with these young folks. They didn’t understand real danger. They had never been at odds with real criminals.

I remembered real criminals. I had been born inside a jail. I knew about danger.

I knew straightaway there was something trustworthy about him. I like to say I can judge a man’s character by his countenance. Some men were innocent, and some were guilty, and you could see it in their physiognomies. Plain as day. I’d only made one mistake in this manner before – Valjean. The unsolvable case that still bothered me after so many years.

Personally I knew what would be seen in my face. I wasn’t handsome. Life working with prisoners will do that to a man. Life working in a prison will do that to a man. I had been born in a jail.

The boy looked to be about nineteen. His coat was threadbare. His cravat was also threadbare. His cuffs were frayed. He was poor.

“I need your help,” he said. Boys his age always did. Or thought they did. They didn’t know a real emergency. They were too young to understand true peril. True danger.

Normally I would have been suspicious of his intent. Being sceptical is a valuable skill when it comes to the police. Crooks liked to pretend to be honest men, to try to trick me, But this boy seemed honest.

Maybe it was the eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. No, not the eyes. He had an aquiline nose. Patrician. He probably had noble ancestry. Roman, perhaps. I found myself wanting to listen to his story.

“Well,” said I. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

-

 

**Gorbeau Tenement, Paris.**

 

The kid would be useless on a case, I could see that much from the first time I caught sight of his wide eyes and wider nostrils. What possessed me to give him a couple pistols, I don’t hardly know. Still, I handed him the weapons, and told him to signal me when things got sticky.

He didn’t make a sound of course. After about twenty minutes, I was beginning to get suspicious. Suspicion is in my nature just as wickedness is in the nature of criminals. You’ve got to be naturally suspicious of everyone, to solve a case.

I moved as quietly as I could up to the door and pressed my eye to the peephole. There were shadowy figures moving about inside, and several of them were holding things that could be weapons. Weapons, or possibly baguettes, but no self-respecting criminal ever killed a man with a slice of bread. Of course, crooks didn’t have self-respect. That was why they were on the wrong side of the law.

The kid was useless on a case, I decided, but I didn’t want to bust down the door too early and give them a chance to deny all. I did my best to listen.

“The ladder,” one of the men snapped, waving his arms. The others hurried over.

“We’re leavin’ without cuttin’ ’is throat?”

That was enough for me. I slowly pushed the door open.

No one seemed to notice me. Crooks weren’t particularly observant. One of them was tied to the bed, for some reason.

The man who’d first said something was trying to leave first. He seemed a bumbling fellow, but I knew from experience that that type was worst to handle in a fight. I’d been in a few fights myself.

“After us, old man,” snarled one of the other crooks, shoving his way towards the window.

“What ya want us to do, draw lots, put our names in a cap—”

“Would you like my hat?”

The looks on their faces were priceless when I stepped into the room holding out my top hat. I couldn’t help smiling a little. It would make a great addition to my reputation, this story would. I wasted no time with the handcuffs.

 

-

 

It was raining when he walked into my office. Six feet of solid muscle and hands that could lift a cab easily. He had biceps. I noticed his biceps. The shirt he was wearing made it easy to notice them.

The guards on duty were smoking. I didn’t smoke. I don’t think he did either. He wouldn’t let a dirty habit ruin his reputation. There was something fishy about him, I knew it. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Maybe it was the biceps. The biceps, the overcoat, and the smile.

“How can I help you?” I asked. He looked at me. I looked back.

“You said you found Jean Valjean,” he said.

I nodded. I had, in fact, found Jean Valjean.

“Are you sure?”

I was sure.

He looked at me more. I didn’t mind the looking. I didn’t mind the biceps, either.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com).


End file.
